


promises I'd make if you'd just hold on

by thewonderzebra



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, I wish this wasn't necessary, M/M, Post Cup Final 2019, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 00:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewonderzebra/pseuds/thewonderzebra
Summary: An emotional, angsty fix-it in response to the heartbreaker that was the Stanley Cup Final, featuring Bergy and Marchy.





	promises I'd make if you'd just hold on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> As a suffering Bruins fan, I felt like this needed to be put on paper and shared. Hopefully it can be even a little bit comforting.

It is deathly quiet as the Bruins leave their locker room and head for home. Even Brad, the eternal optimist, is silent as a stone, his head hung low as he walks out of the garden with Patrice's arm around his shoulders. He can't bear to look at his teammates, can't bear to see their faces right now in this pit of ultimate despair. He can't even look at his husband, who he can sense is sad, but who also tries to silently ease Brad's pain with gentle kisses to the cheek. The thought of speaking makes Brad want to scream and cry, so he simply leans into Patrice as a means of returning affection. 

As they approach their car in the parking garage, Brad thinks of going home, and feels his stomach turn. Home should be a safe place, where he can relish being alone with Patrice in a comfortable environment. But home is also a place full of pictures, of reminders of the past--of what could have been the present. "Bergy," he calls, voice broken and barely above a whisper. "Can…can we go somewhere?" 

Patrice, who has begun to turn away to get into the driver's side of the car, turns back and closes the space between himself and Brad. He cups Brad's face in his hands, and touches his forehead to his husband's. "Of course, ange," Patrice murmurs, his own voice just as broken as that of his other half. "Where would you like to go?" 

At this, Brad shrugs. "I don't know," he mumbles. "Away from here. Anywhere that isn't home. I don't think I can go home yet." As the words fall from his mouth, Brad silently hopes that Patrice does not think his request is outlandish, although, nothing could really be outlandish given the way the current situation feels. 

"I think we can manage that," Patrice agrees softly. "Honestly, I don't think I can go home either. Too many memories that I don't think I can face right now." 

Brad, whose whole body is radiating tension, sadness, and disappointment, seems to relax at these words. "Yeah," he replies. "That's exactly how I feel."

Patrice kisses Brad softly, feeling the left winger's breath hitch with unshed tears as he does so. When they part for air, both their eyes are glistening with tears. Brad tries to muster a watery smile, which Patrice attempts to return before he makes his way to the driver's seat, and Brad climbs into the passenger seat. 

Neither is sure how far they drive, or for how long. The GPS remains off, and Brad and Patrice communicate only by holding one another's hands, squeezing occasionally to offer some semblance of comfort. The only sound in the car is a playlist from Patrice's phone--something to fill the silence without being depressing reminder of the devastation they both feel. Even still, stray tears escape both their eyes, their stained cheeks illuminated by every streetlight in passing. 

Finally, sometime in the middle of the night, it becomes clear to both Brad and Patrice that exhaustion is imminent. Brad breaches the silence to ask if they should find a hotel, and Patrice agrees. It is only then that Brad turns on his phone's GPS, and they make their way toward the nearest hotel. 

Following that, Brad says nothing for the remainder of the drive, instead choosing to recede into the depths of his depressed mind. He thinks about what he did wrong, how close he was to making plays and taking shots that could have and should have been successful. Every thought that goes through his mind causes his heart to clench with pain. This is a night he will never forget--and all for the wrong reasons. He wonders if he should still play, if he's good enough, and that thought alone makes him sick. He never wants to have to remember this night again. 

Brad knows Patrice is onto him, because he lets go of his hand, instead reaching across the center console to gently rub his thigh. Although he relaxes into the touch, Brad knows Patrice is having similar thoughts, too, which makes him feel even worse. He can tell by the somber expression he sees on Patrice's face every time he looks over at him. Still, the moment does not seem right to break the silence just yet. 

They each remain silent as they arrive at the hotel. Brad takes on the task of retrieving their go-bags from the backseat--something that, in this moment, he is very grateful his husband thinks to bring every time there is a game. Once more, Patrice slings an arm over Brad's shoulders, holding him close as they walk slowly, feet dragging and heads turned downward, into the hotel lobby. 

Though the lighting in the lobby is mood lighting, and there is soft music playing, Brad feels personally accosted by the fact that the environment is relaxed, when here he is feeling like a nervous wreck. He turns his head, tucking it against Patrice's chest as they walk, refusing to look at anyone who may be looking at him. Patrice, meanwhile, takes this silent cue and checks them both into the hotel. Every word he says sounds half-choked and sad, but he manages to check them in without bursting into tears. 

Silence once again overtakes them as they ride up the elevator to their floor. This time, though, Patrice takes Brad into his arms, and holds him tight against his chest. Though he tries to stop it from happening, silent, hot tears of anger and sadness trail from Brad's eyes and are absorbed by Patrice's shirt. Meanwhile, Patrice allows himself to release one heavy, long sigh, and stifles crying by burying his nose in Brad's hair and breathing him in. 

They stay silent and sullen, but always touching (even if only by fingertips) as they make their way to their room, arrange their belongings to their liking, shower, and change. Brad seems to have a constant flow of tears, but does not make a single sound. Patrice sighs and puts his face in his hands frequently, but refuses to allow himself to cry. 

It is only when they have settled in bed and have turned the TV on to watch some crime show--because at least fake characters on fake television shows get justice--that the dam finally breaks. Brad grabs one of the pillows from behind his head and pulls it into his lap, punching it over and again. "Goddammit!" he yells. "Fuck!" This continues on a loop until he is out of breath and tired, at which point he slumps over into Patrice's lap, and cries, which in turn triggers Patrice to finally stop fighting his own tears, and cry as well. 

"I should have been better," Brad says in between sobs. "I should have played better. Should have shot more, blocked shots, worked harder. I'm so sorry, Bergy. I'm so, so sorry." 

Patrice tugs slightly on Brad's arms, silently imploring him to roll over onto his back so as to look him in the eye. The assistant captain shakes his head. "No, Marchy," he murmurs. "It's not all on you. You can't take this on yourself. I should have done the same. We all needed to push harder and we didn't. You can't take all of this on yourself." 

"I gave up and needed a fucking break," Brad all but wails. "They would have never scored and gotten their fucking momentum if I had sucked it up and stayed out for the rest of my shift. I cost us the fucking Cup, Bergy." 

Although Patrice's crying has faded to an occasional stray tear and a sniffle every so often, the hurt and anger in Brad's voice makes him want to start crying all over again. He understands the feeling of failure, especially right here in this moment. But he hates the way Brad is going to carry this loss entirely on his own shoulders. He hates seeing his normally vibrant, upbeat husband so miserable; it feels, to Patrice, like the sunshine being stolen from the sky. 

Patrice cradles Brad's head with one hand, and strokes his hair and cheek with the other. "Brad, you cannot take this all on yourself, ange," he murmurs. "We all made mistakes. We've all owned up to it, including you. You can't blame yourself for everything…especially not for this. You will break if you do, and I can't let that happen."

Brad nods, indicating his understanding. However, his tears show no indication of slowing. "Should I quit?" he asks, sobbing harder as he does. "I feel like I'm hindering the team, and I don't know if I'll ever get to hold the Cup again. If we get this close again and we don't…" he trails off, unable to say the words. "I don't know if I can take it." 

"Oh, ange," Patrice says softly. "I know this hurts. I know the thought of this happening again hurts…it hurts me, too. But you absolutely should not quit. This is who you are, Marchy. You would be devastated if you gave up hockey for any reason other than our medical trainers telling you your body would give out if you played. Am I wrong?" 

Brad sniffles heavily, but shakes his head. "No," he concedes. "But what about you, Patrice?" 

Patrice stares right back into Brad's doe-like eyes, and smiles softly. "What about me?" 

"I wanted you to win, too," Brad says. "I wanted to win with you. I wanted us to win together. And I feel like I blew it for you--for us. I'm so sorry, Bergy." 

"You have nothing to apologize for, mon amour," Patrice admonishes gently. "I'm not angry or upset with you. If we win as a team, we lose as a team…that doesn't mean you have to carry the full weight of this. Nor does it mean you should quit doing what you love because you're upset." 

Brad wipes his eyes haphazardly before blinking up at Patrice. "Okay," he agrees, still sounding a bit like a frightened child. "Promise me you're not mad at me for this?" 

Patrice smiles. "I promise." 

"Promise me you won't leave me for this?" Brad asks. "Or if I blow it in the future?" 

Patrice nods, his smile consistent (even if his eyes are still red from his own tears earlier. "Of course I promise. You're it for me, ange," he says, which finally earns a small smile from Brad. "I promise something else, too." 

Brad furrows his eyes in confusion. "What's that?" he asks. 

"What ever happens next season and every season after that, I promise that I'll be by your side. I promise that no matter what, we'll get through it together." At this, Patrice extends his pinky finger, and holds it out to Brad, who giggles for the first time since before the game, but links said pinky finger with the pinky finger of his own. 

"I think I can live with that promise," Brad says. His voice is hoarse, but there is a smile on his face. He pushes himself upward, then, and settles in Patrice's lap so that he can wrap his legs around Patrice's waist, and his arms around Patrice's neck. Patrice grins, and presses his lips to Brad's, finally content just to exist with his other half. They both melt into the kiss, and in that moment, it sinks in for both Brad and Patrice that things will be okay again. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or in the immediate future…but eventually, everything will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, and feel comfortable doing so, please leave me a comment. I thrive on positive feedback, and comments from you all feed my plot bunnies. I'm also on Tumblr under the same username, if you'd like to come say hi/yell with me there, too. :)


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